Chapter Twenty-One
That same Tuesday, just after tea, the hush of the afternoon carried a promise of change.
“Good afternoon, Miss Seaton. Did you enjoy your tea with Mrs. Bainbridge?” asked the maid with a practiced curtsy.
“Yes, thank you. Very much so.”
“Shall I set out your day dress or something more suitable for a walk?” the maid waited for her reply.
Mary-Ann paused in the doorway, studying the young woman. She was neat and trim, with a sharp nose and an even sharper air of certainty, not at all what she expected from a proper lady’s maid.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Apologies, miss. I’m Lydia Finch. Mr. Wilkinson arranged it all. I’m here to accompany you throughout the day, to appointments, errands, and whatever else you may need.”
Mary-Ann stepped fully into the hall and let the door click softly behind her. “And what exactly do you consider your duties, Miss Finch?”
The girl blinked, then smiled with a hint of condescension. “Why, to ensure you don’t tire yourself with the finer points of a busy household. To offer companionship, of course. And to keep you properly attended when you go about. It wouldn’t do to have you wandering alone, now would it?”
There was something off in the smile, too knowing, too sure.
“I see,” Mary-Ann said, her tone carefully neutral. “And I assume you’re familiar with my schedule?”
“As much as is proper, miss. Mr. Wilkinson was very clear.”
“I’m sure he was.”
Lydia tilted her head, clearly expecting agreement or gratitude.
Mary-Ann offered neither. Instead, she smiled softly. “Well, Miss Finch, I thank you for your eagerness. However, I will require some time this morning to review the correspondence. It’s a quiet task, and I’ve no need for assistance.”
“Very good, miss. I’ll be just in the next room, should you need anything.”
Mary-Ann offered a nod but did not retreat into the study at once.
Instead, she turned down the corridor toward her father’s study, not the sitting room Lydia had likely expected.
If the maid noted the change in direction, she said nothing.
Mary-Ann stepped into her father’s study and waited until the door clicked shut behind her.
The study still carried a faint scent of pipe smoke and lavender wax polish, underscored by the quiet imprint of her father’s order and quiet diligence, everything knew its place.
Mary-Ann stood by the hearth, the same place she had stood so many evenings when she was younger, watching him leaf through ledgers with ink-stained fingers and a furrowed brow.
But now the fire was unlit, and the room seemed to echo with everything that had changed.
She crossed to the desk, absently touching the blotter, then glanced toward the door. She paused. Her gaze shifted to the far wall instead. She stared at it for several seconds, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly. Of course.
There had always been another way.
She moved to the panel near the hearth, where the paint had warped ever so slightly over the years.
With a soft press, the jib door gave way.
She didn’t linger. Whatever comfort the room once held had turned hollow.
As she stepped through the narrow passage, she paused just shy of the anteroom that opened behind the study.
From within, she paused at the antechamber jib door, catching the faint sound of light snoring. Lydia, it seemed, was less alert than she liked to appear.
A slow smile curved her lips. So, the woman made a habit of napping on duty. That was… useful.
She moved silently past, not disturbing a single floorboard, and followed the narrow path she had known well since childhood all the way upstairs and into her bed chamber.
She crossed her bedroom, her heart steady, her movements careful.
The old ledger was still tucked on her shelf, disguised behind a row of dull, untouched volumes.
She lifted it with care and turned to the wall beside the fireplace, the one with the faint seam in the wainscoting, just behind the dressing screen, a space she had discovered as a child, and which had kept its secret all these years.
With a firm press near the edge, the small compartment gave way.
For a moment, she feared it would be gone, that someone had discovered the hollow, and that when she opened the panel, she would find only dust. But the booklet was still there, plain and unassuming, yet pulsing with secrets. Relief and dread tangled in her chest.
She eased it out and settled at the desk, pulling the heavy drapes just enough to filter the morning light.
She opened her private list of weight discrepancies, compiled weeks ago in neat, exacting columns, and began to cross-reference it with the entries marked by strange symbols in the back of the ledger.
Not all the symbols matched. Some were dots, slashes, or triangles, meaningless on their own. But then she saw it again.
The raven.
Drawn in hurried lines, wings outstretched over a diamond shape.
Her breath caught for just a moment. The mark wasn’t random.
It wasn’t decorative. It appeared beside three entries, each one tied to a shipment she had already flagged in her private notes.
Two had passed through ships not listed in the official manifests.
This wasn’t theory anymore. It was proof.
Her fingers rested lightly on the page, as though any sudden motion might break the thread she’d just uncovered.
She flipped to another page. There it was again. This time, next to a name she didn’t recognize. Below it, another line: Percival Trent, in small, impersonal script.
She frowned, not because the name meant anything, but because so few of the entries had names at all. This one seemed oddly… tidy. She made no note of it and turned the page.
Beneath the entry, faintly, she saw another set of initials.
The handwriting had changed. It wasn’t her father’s, nor the loopy script Hamish had used. But it was familiar.
Wren.
She remembered the carved whalebone in her father’s desk. Wren had given it to Hamish years ago, and she now kept it tucked away on the mantel. A quiet token. She had never given it much thought until now.
Her hand hesitated over the page. Was Wren warning them? Or had someone else taken up the book after him? The possibility opened like a cold draft through the room.
She flipped back to the last page and ran her finger along the bottom edge. There, pressed into the crease, was another raven. Smaller this time. Almost hidden.
Mary-Ann closed the book slowly, her fingers resting on the cover for a long breath. A part of her wanted to march to Barrington’s estate this instant to demand answers from the only man who might understand the implications. Another part, quieter, steelier, held her still.
Quinton had looked at her yesterday with something close to fear, not fear of her, but fear for her. And that, more than anything, told her there were pieces of this puzzle even he was holding back.
She no longer believed this was simply a matter of mislogged cargo or clerical oversight. This was intentional. It was coordinated. And someone had tried to hide it, even from her father.
She stood, returning the book to the compartment and closing it firmly.
For a moment, she considered replacing it with something else, a blank booklet, perhaps, or one of her old journals.
A decoy. But the thought felt too theatrical.
No one was rifling through her belongings.
Not yet. And if they were… A knock on her bedchamber door startled her.
“Miss?” the maid’s voice called, muffled.
Mary-Ann swallowed. “One moment.”
She dusted her hands and pulled open the door.
“You weren’t in the study,” Lydia said, her tone carrying a mild reprimand, her brow pinching faintly.
Mary-Ann offered a soft smile. “I went to the antechamber but didn’t want to disturb your rest.”
A faint flush rose on Lydia’s cheeks but was quickly smoothed over with a brittle smile. “Shall I help you prepare for your walk?”
“No,” Mary-Ann said softly. “That won’t be necessary today.”
She stepped past the maid, her mind still with the raven, the diamond, and the name she didn’t recognize.
Lydia’s smile tightened, but she stepped back with practiced grace.
Mary-Ann didn’t miss the flicker of calculation behind her eyes or the swift recalibration of a woman who had expected obedience and found something else entirely.
She said nothing, but Mary-Ann made note of it, the second time the maid had tried to keep her contained.
Once might be a habit. Twice was a strategy.
Mary-Ann felt the presence at her back like a hush in a chapel.
She had too many questions now to be chaperoned.
Too many shadows were circling, and none of them would pause for a lady’s maid.
And she was done waiting for permission to find the answers.
*
The study at Sommer Chase was dimly lit, with thick drapes drawn to guard against the late-morning sun. Barrington stood near the sideboard, two glasses untouched at his elbow. He didn’t look up when the door opened.
“You said it was urgent,” Quinton said, stepping inside.
“It is.” Barrington turned, brows furrowed. “She was at the Redwake yesterday.”
Quinton’s jaw tensed. “You saw her?”
“I didn’t have to. One of mine warned her off.”
The air between them thickened.
“You had a man placed on the crew,” Quinton said slowly. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”
Barrington’s expression didn’t shift. “He was placed to watch for symbols. Movements. And yes, people. She was never meant to get that close.”
Quinton crossed to the window and looked out, jaw set. “And yet she did.”
“Because she’s clever. And determined. You knew she would push.”
“Yes,” Quinton said, turning. “And you knew I would want to protect her.”
Barrington moved to the desk and rested his hands on the edge. “You’re not thinking clearly. She’s not some ally in your old campaigns. This is something darker. Deeper.”
“She’s not an ally,” Quinton said. “She’s the reason I survived those campaigns.”
The silence that followed was sharp.
Barrington exhaled. “The Order has threads in places we haven’t even mapped yet. I won’t risk dragging her into that.”
“You already have,” Quinton said.
That gave Barrington pause.
“She saw the symbol.” Quinton stepped closer. “And we both know what that means. She’s involved whether you like it or not.”
Barrington’s voice dropped. “She doesn’t know what it means.”
“Not yet.”
Barrington studied him. “Then let’s keep it that way.”
Quinton didn’t respond. Not immediately. His jaw tensed as he gazed fixed on the window, though the light blurred more than it revealed. He turned back to the window, gazing out at the sea beyond the rise.
“Do I have your word, Captain?”
Quinton’s posture straightened. “You do.”
But his reflection in the glass told a different story: the tightness in his shoulders, the set of his jaw, and the slow clench of his hands.
He’d meant every word until now.
He had given Barrington a promise. But it was Mary-Ann’s trust he feared losing. That was the oath he couldn’t bear to break, because deep down, he knew he had already.
He would protect her. But there would come a moment, a tipping point.
He would know when it arrived. And if the truth could no longer be contained, he would be the one to give it to her.
Not because Barrington ordered it. But because he owed her that much.
Even if it meant protecting her from the lies they told in her name.